


Her lot in life

by oatmealcoloured



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, there is no happy ending here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-09 00:31:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10399659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oatmealcoloured/pseuds/oatmealcoloured
Summary: Christine would never see the sun again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The category should make it obvious but this is based heavily on Leroux with a dash of Kay. 
> 
> Please heed the tags.

She was running. Her back was cold and clammy, heaving with exhausted breaths, her hands wet from sweat. Just. Away. She didn’t know what she was running towards. She knew what she was running from.  

She didn’t care about her naked feet, freezing and wet from the water that splashed up her legs. She tried to push away the images and memories. _Let me forget this._

It was no use. Memories descended upon her like a poisonous fog, scattered moments that coalesced into pain deep within her chest. She fell to her knees, wheezing from lack of air, and pressed her hands over her ears, trying to shut it all out.

“No, no, no!” she cried, voice tiny and breathless but hysterical. There were tears, burning hot in her eyes and on her cheeks. Inside, she was very cold.

_Erik, making her choose between scorpion and grasshopper. Raoul’s voice that had been distant and dampened by the torture chamber’s walls. Raoul’s face after he and the Persian had been flushed out of the torture chamber, wet from sweat and icy water. The nagging fear and uncertainty. Would he survive? The relief when he was fine and then the shock. Raoul’s pale face as he was dragged, kicking and screaming and calling out for her, back to the surface. Without her. Leaving her with **him** , despite their begging and pleading and tears. Erik, forcing her to marry him… _

With a suppressed shout, she forced the memories away. There was no way she could do this. A sob got stuck in her throat as she remembered her wedding night. Since that night, she felt like she was dying every day. It had been worse than her imagination, filled with pain and fear and darkness.

He had started out carefully but his temper had gotten the better of him, until there were only her suppressed whimpers. He had apologized, afterwards. But what good were apologies? _There is no use in turning back now. You have changed everything, forever._

It was true but it hurt. There was no turning back, not for her. She had chosen this to save Raoul’s life. And yet here _she_ was, dying a little more inside each day. A shock ran through her body when she heard him whisper behind her: “Christine!”

His voice the cadence of a father, scolding his daughter. But he was as much a father to her as Raoul had been.

“Christine, my love, get up. Come, we are going back home.”

Home…

The house across the lake. The house where so many things had happened. Yes, maybe she was to dwell there yet it felt like she was stepping into her own tomb.

When she did not get up, he shook her shoulder, none too gently: “Come, Christine. Do you want the rat-catcher to find you? He will get you, the Boogeyman.” He laughed, voice rough and unfamiliar, so unlike his usual, melodious tone. Christine forced a laugh out of herself but to her ears it sounded more like a dry sob.

True, the rat-catcher was frightening, but not nearly as frightening as her husband.

Her _husband._

She’d thought, for most her life, that she could think of her husband with affection and care, maybe even love. But she could have never seen Erik coming.

She couldn’t even hide from him, not knowing how to leave the catacombs beneath the opera and everything here was Erik’s domain. There were other shadows crawling around but none as him. He, who had helped build everything knew this empire like no other. There was no way out, no escape. Not for her.

She felt his eyes on her, worried and calculating. Then, he lifted her up in his arms like it was nothing, carrying her back towards the lake.

Back in his house, he set her on a chaise lounge and wrapped her in a woolen blanket. After he had built up the fire in the grate, he vanished towards the small kitchen.

“I shall make you something to warm you up.”

She didn’t hear anything more, not even him working in the kitchen, with the walls as thick as they were. There was only the _tock tock tock_ of the grandfather clock at the other end of the room. Christine shivered. She tried to bury herself deeper into her blanket but it was no use. She was so cold. There was only ice inside her, filling up her body and crushing her lungs. She shivered again. She didn’t know if there was anything in this world that could make her feel warm again but she knew she hadn’t aided the situation by walking the catacombs with bare feet.

When Erik returned, it seemed like an eternity later but the grandfather clock informed her it had only been ten minutes. She was still cold and shivery and took the tray he handed her gratefully. On it she found tea, some bread, and a bowl of hot soup.

Her hands were trembling, but so slightly that she could only spot it in the liquids’ small movements. Hopefully Erik wouldn’t notice. His eyes, however, were sharp.

“Are you still cold?”, he asked, concern heavy in his voice.

“No, no I’m fine.” She forced a smile. She just wanted him gone again. To be alone again. She did not want to be here.

Once upon a time, she couldn’t wait to spend time in Erik’s company. She had loved him, her angel of music. Adored his guidance and care. But now – now everything was changed.

With a sigh, she turned towards her soup. It was delicious, which did not surprise her, knowing Erik’s tendency towards perfectionism. Some of her hair hung into her soup and she could not suppress the slight disgust. It was a bird’s nest but she tried to keep it away as well as she could. She felt Erik’s hands ghosting the nape of her neck, about to offer her a band to tie it back.

“No, thank you”, she said with studied calm. She tried to avoid letting him touch her whenever she could, now that things were as they were.

She knew that his silence hid some confused hurt but she could honestly not have cared less. He hovered until she was finished and whisked the tray away as soon as she relinquished it.

She rested her eyes on him as he stalked away. He was so thin. She didn’t know if there even was a word for it besides “malnourished”. She had felt the extent of it since her wedding night but – even his suit could not hide it. Despite being bespoke and of high quality it hung on his frame as if it was made for a bigger man. She frowned. Had he lost even more weight?

Christine banished these thoughts. They might have been married in some capacity but he was not hers to watch over. Before she could sink back into her melancholic state she tried to remember her father and his optimism. He had taught her to make the best out of any situation. She straightened her back. She would not let this defeat her.

Maybe she could use a bit of cajoling to try to make him take basic care of himself if she had to spend the rest of his life with him. She did not want to be someone to be waited on hand and foot. That was not who she was nor who she wanted to be.

Yes, she would try to give her best. She tried to banish the thought of any nights spent with her husband far away. She had to survive this somehow. She would outlive him and then maybe –

But where would she go? There was no one else.

There was a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach when she tried to think about this. Erik, who had just returned into the room, must have seen her grow paler because he sent her to bed.

As she lay under her duvet, the tremors returned. She remembered how he had told her that his mother had died in this very bed and felt sick to her core. Valiantly, she suppressed it until she could breathe freely again. She stared at the clock sitting on the mantelpiece.

Half an hour passed and still there had been no _visit_. Maybe she would be lucky tonight, maybe he would not – but there was a knock on the door and Erik stepped into her room but a moment later. Her hopes dashed on the expensive, Persian carpet.

She quivered as he crossed the room to sit at the foot of her bed to take off his shoes. When he went to stroke her cheek, moving some of her hair, she felt the queasiness again.

This was not about his face. It hadn’t been for a very long time. This was about the things he had done and the things she knew he would do.

Her resolve, just a tiny bud barely formed, died a quiet death. Acquiescing, she closed her eyes as her husband, so tall and thin, moved to join her under the covers…

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read this!  
> I wrote this back in 2008 for a Halloween exchange on a forum, the Underground Lair. I've felt compelled to translate it after having been to see the show in London recently. Honestly I think the German original might be better overall? because compound nouns are The Shit. But this is my 2017 version, translated and slightly re-written by my adult self. If you want, you can check out the original German version here: https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/492181f0000069b706e003e8/1/Ihr-Los
> 
> Let me know what you think, if you want. Us Germans are used to a very critical fandom base :D


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